Brandy & Champagne
by Elfpen
Summary: Horace understood that it was just one of those things: they had to talk about it at some point, no matter how much neither of them wanted to. "Worst comes to worst," Duncan was saying, in a quiet, professional voice that Horace could tell was failing its usual purpose of hiding how the King felt, "I must count on you to take up the crown." (Angsty but I swear it's a good ending)


**A/N: **I have no idea where this idea came from. So. Yeah.

* * *

Horace understood that it was just one of those things: they had to talk about it at some point, no matter how much neither of them wanted to.

"Worst comes to worst," Duncan was saying, in a quiet, professional voice that Horace could tell was failing its usual purpose of hiding how the King felt, "I must count on you to take up the crown."

Horace chewed on his lip. It was something that had always been unsaid and understood, that he was second in line to the throne. The royal family of Araluen was small and unconstrained by blood alone; as soon as he uttered his wedding vows, he was adopted into the house of Araluen Royalty and put in an according place on the line of succession. He'd seen the royal genealogist scribe his name on the family tree, coat of arms and all, heard the King declare before the assembled Barons that Horace was as good as a second-born son. As far as Araluen and the crown, indeed all of history was concerned, Horace was no longer an Altman. He would live and die a prince, and one day, inevitably, a king.

Horace didn't like thinking about himself as the future king. He didn't like thinking about Cassie as the future Queen, to be honest. He was fond of Duncan, too fond of him to think about the day that he would one day die. But it was the course of nature, so there were of course many sobering moments in his life that Horace had had to consider the inevitable. These moments never shook him beyond an expectable apprehension, however. Deep down, he knew that it would happen. Deep, deep down, he was preparing himself to accept it.

This, however, this was something that he had never considered until Duncan brought him into his office one day and gave him a cup of brandy.

"Horace?" The king now asked quietly, looking at his son-in-law with concern and understanding in equal measure. The prince blinked rapidly and sighed, still looking away. He fingered the edge of his brandy glass.

"Worst comes to worst," He repeated, unable to _not _think about it.

He'd been so happy - they'd all been so happy, of course there had to be something to spoil it now. Cassandra was in her fifth month of pregnancy, and the whole country was over the moon to see her. Horace himself could hardly contain his smile most days, and only laughed on he evenings when Duncan and his daughter would argue over which family name they ought to revive in their next heir. They were happy, Cassandra was healthy, the country was enthralled.

But of course there had to be _something_.

Cassandra's mother had died in childbirth. Horace knew this. Duncan had reminded Horace of this as he calmly poured two glasses of brandy, careful to not give his son-in-law perhaps as much as he would crave when the subject of their meeting became clear. Cassandra took after her mother in many ways, and the healers were unsure as to whether she was ready for the task set before her. Horace's hand closed into a fist at the thought, for he'd never known Cassandra to be anything less than unbreakable. But there was no way to tell, Duncan said, no way to know what her body could and couldn't take until it was time. Labor and birth would be a test, and the outcome would decide the future of the crown, the country, and the rest of Horace's life.

In a bizarre, momentary daydream, Horace wondered what it would have been like if their roles in this had been reversed, if Cassandra had been male and Horace female, if this horrible life-and-death nine-month wait did not affect the true line of succession. If _he_ were the one whose life was at stake, they wouldn't be having this conversation.

But it was not reality: here they were, and he had to accept not the inevitable, but the unknown. Would he be king without Cassandra? Maybe. If it came to that, he would have to remarry. He would have to find some other poor woman to love and ask to undertake the life-endangering gamble of childbearing. He'd have to run a country and not consult his grief. He'd have to do it all without Duncan, without Cassandra, without an heir, without help. He, Horace Altman, the peasant orphan from the Redmont ward, would be emotionally shattered and alone and in charge of everything that happened in his country, indefinitely.

"I can't do it," Horace whispered without meaning to. His head twitched up as he realized he'd spoken. He couldn't look at Duncan. He put a hand to his head. "I can't do it."

If Horace had glanced up, he would have seen that the king was not surprised. He was, however, very sad.

"I'm sorry, Horace," he whispered. "I don't want to think about it any more than you do. But it needs to be said. Should… Should Cassandra die when her time comes," his voice trembled despite his efforts, "You will be next in line - no matter if the child lives, you will have to take my place when I'm gone, at very least until the child is grown."

"The child," Horace took minuscule solace in that. Cassandra had survived after her mother, hadn't she? He realized that, in a sick and undecided future, his son or daughter would be the only family he'd have. But he _would _have them. It was a painful, horrible think to take hope in, but worst come to worst, it was all he'd have.

"Yes," Duncan said, fiddling with his own brandy glass, wrapped up in his own considerations. He took a long drink. "It's not an easy thing, Horace, and I can't imagine what it must be like, coming into this from all you've known." It was not an insult - nothing about Horace's past was an insult when Duncan said it. "Cassandra married you for love, which is frankly more than I can say about her mother and I, at the start. We loved each other deeply, by the end, but going into it…" He sighed and waved a hand. "What I mean to say is, this is probably much harder for you than anyone I've known. To ask it of you now is horrible timing on my part. But the fact stands: you must brace yourself, as you can, for the worst. At very least, you have to give me your word that you understand what will happen."

Horace lifted his head and nodded numbly. "I understand, sir," He said, "But I don't think I'll ever be ready."

"Nor will I," Duncan said, almost inaudibly. "I hope we never have to be."

They finished their brandy in silence.

* * *

That evening in bed, Horace held Cassandra close and cradled her stomach while she slept, feeling the kicks on his palm. Where the feeling of unseen feet had only ever made him smile, he fought to keep tears out of his eyes.

"Please stay with me," he whispered lowly as not to wake his wife, "Please don't leave me."

He buried his face in the space on his pillow where his wife's hair was spread. Normally ticklish, he turned his head into it and stifled a sob.

He didn't know that she was awake because of the baby's kicks, or that she heard him. She stayed still, feigning sleep, heart at a loss to comfort him because she was scared, too. Her tears were dry and invisible by the morning, but crusted her eyes so that she remembered when she greeted him the next day, when he kissed her, when the baby started kicking once more.

They never spoke to each other for very long about their fears, as if lending them voices would give them purchase in the world. They cried alone, because they were too afraid to do otherwise.

Only time would tell.

* * *

The verdict of Cassandra's test was a close call, for several long hours. But as long as Horace had known her, Cassandra had been unbreakable. When her time came, she left his opinion of her strengthened all the more.

At about two hours before dawn on the fifteenth of August, William, Crown Prince of Araluen was born screaming into the world. A respectable number of hours later, he was welcomed warmly into his nursery and his mother, the Princess Royale was led back whole and healthy to her bedroom to rest.

She was awake to greet her husband that night, and when he dissolved into tears at the sight of her, she took him into her arms and they finally cried together. Their fears were dead, and lending them voices now only buried them deeper in the ground. Resolution and celebration came together, leaving the real tears to their son, who only ever cried over an empty belly, and never for very long. Come morning, Horace was smiling wider than any man alive, a bundle of squirming infant in one arm and a healthy, whole wife at his other. He, along with Duncan, Cassandra, the healers, and indeed the entire country, heaved a massive sigh of relief.

The next time Duncan invited Horace into his office, it was for champagne. They did not speak of all the things that Horace would have to do, nor even of the things that he would _not _have to do. Laughing, they spoke only of all the things that he would get to do, and how he would do them with family.


End file.
